


Right where we belong

by carbonbased000



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pete Wentz Is Sad, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-18 00:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carbonbased000/pseuds/carbonbased000
Summary: Pete and Patrick. Three summer festivals. Ten years.





	1. And all that could have been

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I’m Carbon, I’ve been involved in fandom for the past twenty years and this is my first fic. If I have found the strength to write, the courage to publish, and enough happiness in my brain to envision a happy ending for these two lovely idiots, it is only because of the generous, supportive, and generally amazing people I have met through the FOB fandom. I hope we can all live happily in our pack commune one day – until then, thank you so much for making me smile every day. I love you dudes. 
> 
> A very special thank you to [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers) for reading this over and telling me it wasn’t complete shit two or three thousand times. 
> 
> This whole fic was inspired by [this lj post/poem by Pete](https://earlgreytea68.tumblr.com/post/185760928371/i-somehow-cant-find-this-poem-by-itself-anywhere) which is a treasure trove of lyrics that have been used throughout the years. 
> 
> All titles are Nine Inch Nails lyrics because I was emo before emo was a thing.

_Somewhere in the Midwest, summer 2003_

  
The kids called it a festival, but it’s not, not really – for one, the stage is this rickety thing that was probably built out of, like, cardboard, chopsticks, and hope. 

“Come on, Trick, they didn’t use _chopsticks_ , it’s okay, dude,” Pete tells him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and grinning like he’s found himself in the best of all possible stages, worlds, and universes.

“Yeah? Go check, then.” 

“Fine,” says Pete, and strangely enough, actually does as he’s told. Huh. What a rare display of responsibility. Then again, they assembled the quote-unquote stage in the middle of the local high school soccer field, so maybe he’s just worried about the grass. You never know which part of Pete is doing any given thing, let alone for what reason. 

At least it’s not raining. Some mud would be pretty festival-y, but the dirty clothes situation in the van is already dire enough without adding caked dirt to the mix. It’s hot, though. Patrick is going to sweat through his t-shirt before they even start playing. Not that this would be a novel occurrence, exactly.

Jesus, he’s tired. They’ve had to sleep in the van for five nights in a row, and by “sleep” he means dozing while twisted in uncomfortable positions on a hard surface, either too cold or too hot, and more often than not with Pete half on top or wrapped around him. If he’s honest with himself, he has to admit the last part isn’t so bad, but he’s trying quite hard not to be, not about this. Once upon a time he used to be quite honest and self-aware – well, for a teenage boy anyway... he was almost proud of it. And then Pete came along, and everything on that front went to hell.

He’s been ruminating in the sun like an idiot for way too long when Pete comes back and plasters himself to his back, wrapping one arm around his chest and murmuring reassurance; the stage is fine, everything’s good, the kids are rad, the show’s going to be great, Patrick’s going to be amazing as always, they’re going to get paid so they can afford a motel in the next town. Patrick is not sure why all of this should be whispered in his ear like dirty talk, but whatever, it’s Pete, he’s definitely not asking questions and absolutely not blushing. He’s just flushed because of the heat and because he’s been in the sun too long and he burns easily. 

The things Pete is telling him, or well, more accurately, _purring_ at him, are good, as long as he can bring himself to trust him. And he does, he trusts him, mostly despite himself. 

When Pete finally peels himself off and away, goes to find Joe and Andy and maybe attach himself like an overeager baby wolf to one of them for a change, Patrick is left out of balance, slightly shivery despite the heat. He adjusts his hat, walks to a line of trees that might provide some shade, and waits for soundcheck.

*

It turns out Pete was right: the show is fine, the stage doesn’t collapse, Patrick doesn’t fuck up too bad, and they get paid (sparingly) and even wined and dined. That is, the three kids – two guys and a girl – who seem to be the key culprits behind the wannabe festival buy them burgers (and a salad for Andy) from a nearby diner. 

The two guys both belong to that category of pretentious asshole who wants to claim to be friends with the band without actually making the effort to, like, _be nice_ to the band. Patrick has no patience for that kind of person, never had, so he just pretends to listen to their shitty, judgy opinions about the music scene while sharing covert eyerolls with Joe. He has forgotten their names out of sheer spite and mentally dubs them Blond Asshole and Tall Asshole. 

The girl, though, doesn’t seem to share her friends’ appalling manners. Patrick can tell, because as soon as he’s sitting in the booth, kind of squashed between her and Pete, she compliments the clean, well, clean _ish_ , Bowie shirt he threw on after peeling off the completely wet and gross black one he wore for the show. 

“Oh, sorry,” she says after that, with a half smile. Her voice is deep, like she’s just finished a pack of cigarettes. “I’m Alice.”

“Patrick,” he definitely doesn’t squeal, being the fucking lead singer in a fucking punk rock band. Her eyes sparkle. “I know,” she says, and Pete, a bastard, snickers. He’s going to smother him with his own fucking skull-print scarf in his sleep. 

In Patrick’s defense, he has just realised that Alice is so hot as to be slightly terrifying. Actually, the fact that he hasn’t really noticed until now is, like, concerning. She’s probably Pete’s age, tall and slender, but not rail-thin like the girls Pete usually goes for – she still looks _soft_ , Patrick thinks. She has the hugest, darkest eyes he’s ever seen on someone not drawn by a manga artist, and her hair is unreal, almost black, slightly wavy and down to the middle of her back, with big ’70s bangs on her forehead. 

He’s been staring, but it doesn’t matter because of course – _of fucking course_ – she has now turned to Pete, and he’s giving her his 10,000-watt smile, and Patrick knows that she won’t be talking to him again anytime soon. Pete on a charm offensive, smiling like that, looking at you with those shining amber eyes like you’re the most interesting thing _ever_ – he’s impossible to resist, a fact that Patrick knows from personal experience. He wouldn’t be here, as the singer in a band playing a(n albeit shitty) festival, if not for that smile. 

As Patrick sulks into his fries and tries not to listen too attentively to Pete’s heavy flirting – he gives it half an hour before they’re making out in a dark corner somewhere – Blond Asshole decides to share this bright idea: “So, guys, want to get drunk and break into the community pool?”

Patrick is horrified. Pete actually jumps up and down in his seat like a small child who needs to pee. 

They get drunk and break into the fucking community pool.  


*

Pete, of course, has climbed the fence, run to the pool while removing his clothes, and dived in before Patrick has the time to say “What the fuck.” Andy, Joe, Alice, and both Assholes follow him at a slightly more sedate pace. Patrick stands alone at the edge of the pool and stares.

“Come on, Pattycakes, Patrick, come here,” says Pete, making grabby motions with his hands, half submerged and glistening like the male emo version of Anita Ekberg in the fucking Trevi fountain. Patrick stares some more. 

It’s after midnight, everything is quiet and dark, the only light coming from the sodium lights in the parking lot outside. The water is a deep blue, more lake than pool, and as pretty as that is, well, it doesn’t really matter, because Patrick has no intention of actually getting in. He’s not a pool person, okay? He’s not a beach person, not a swimming person, not a _summer_ person. He likes cool rainy places, he enjoys the snow, and breaking into a public pool is, like, way out of character for him, not to mention he is at least slightly drunk and it’s probably not a good idea to drink and swim, or something. 

“Come on Trick, live a little!” Pete insists, and then he says, “I’ll make it worth your while,” waggling his eyebrows like a… a… sex fiend, or something. Cut Patrick some slack, okay, he’s not the lyricist, and anyway it’s not easy to think of similes while faced with all of that tanned and tattooed skin and, and, the damn nipple ring glinting in the half light, and that fucking _smile_ set to kill.

Like anyone ever needed more proof that Patrick’s constitutionally incapable of saying no to that smile, he huffs, mutters darkly about depraved bassists, takes off his Converse, and steps out of his jeans. 

And if he actually thinks about it, he knows exactly what happens next, right? He knows how this goes. He kinda feels bad for that small, innocent part of himself that held out the irrational hope that Pete, the absolute _fucker_ , wouldn’t dive underwater, resurface right in front of him, wrap both hands around his ankles, and pull him in, half-dressed and behatted, with a huge _splash_.

“You asshole, you fucking...” Patrick splutters as soon as he’s coughed up all the chlorinated water from his poor lungs, reaching wildly for Pete. He gets an arm around his (ex) best friend’s neck and _squeezes_. He hopes he fucking chokes, seriously. Pete just smiles at him, sunnily, like Patrick’s not trying to drown him like an unwanted puppy, squirms out of his grasp, and swims away. 

With murderous intent, Patrick follows, slower – he’s always slower when the basis for comparison is Pete. The times when he manages to catch up to him, though, he makes those count: sometimes it’s a well-placed punch, sometimes it’s the right melody to go with Pete’s self-hating, rambling words, turning them into lyrics, into something less jagged, part of a song instead of a ritual of self-punishment.

God, he’s thinking too much; isn’t he supposed to be a happy drunk? By the time he reaches Pete at the far end of the pool, which is under the shadow of a building and almost completely in the dark, he doesn’t even want to drown him that much anymore. Pete is holding on to the pool edge and is apparently staying put. In the dark, with Pete so weirdly still, the moment feels suddenly strange, out of time. 

“You shouldn’t have done that. What the fuck. What am I going to wear now?” he says, when he finally reaches Pete.

“Uhm, you can take my hoodie,” says Pete, his eyes on the gloomy building rising in front of them. “I’m sorry, Trick, I didn’t think–”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Patrick says quickly – Pete saying ‘I’m sorry’ is a rare enough occurrence that he pays attention when it happens, and that kind of voice is often the prelude to one of Pete’s darker moods. Patrick would really like to avoid that. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry, again,” and now Pete’s looking at him and his expression is maybe worse than the low hollow tone of his apology. 

“Yeah, no, seriously, don’t worry about it. You know I’m not actually _that_ angry, right? I mean. Please for the love of god don’t take this as a blanket permission to prank me or anything but… this wasn’t so bad, y’know, it’s whatever. It’s nice here.”

Pete shoots him a small smile, the pale, thin shadow of the one he was wearing just a few minutes ago, when he was trying to tempt Patrick into the water. 

Okay, Patrick just needs to get closer. So many times, when he couldn’t find the right words to soothe Pete’s wild mood swings, he’s been able to offer some comfort with a hug, a hand squeezing his shoulder. It’s one of the duties that, he’s learned, come with the territory of being Pete Wentz’s Best Friend. And it’s not like he minds, exactly. He’s not maybe the most touchy-feely guy ever but with Pete, somehow, this lack of personal space has always felt easy, almost natural. 

The only problem is, Pete is standing in the next lane over. He has to swim under the lane divider if he wants to reach him. Which reminds him… “Oh, did I ever tell you about that time I got pneumonia at the pool?”

“You _what_?” Pete splutters, and finally turns all the way around to face Patrick. 

“Yeah, it was like in fourth grade, and the instructor was one of those ‘tough love’ kind of guys, so one day, when I told him I wasn’t feeling so good, he decided I was faking and he threw me in and I drank... breathed… whatever, a lot of water went the wrong way and I got pneumonia. I think my mom wanted to kill him.”

“Dude, yeah, I kind of want to kill him, too, what a dick,” says Pete, pained. Patrick’s not going to lie, it’s gratifying to see him so incensed for something that happened years before they even met. Pete’s protective streak when it comes to his friends is not exactly a secret, but Patrick still finds it quite sweet.

“At least I got to stay home from school for, like, three weeks, so there was that,” he adds, because one should try to look at the silver lining and whatnot. 

“Oh god, I’m such an asshole,” Pete goes on, taking one hand off the pool edge to pull at his hair like a distraught Victorian lady. “I just traumatized you all over again when I pulled you in just now, what the fuck, I’m so sorry, Trick, I shoulda–”

“No, it’s okay, really, I was just telling you because… Uhm, I’m still a bit afraid of going under. And I want to...” Patrick gestures vaguely towards Pete with the hand that’s not holding to the edge, trying to convey ‘Come over there and hug you until you feel better because when you get sad I get sad too, and I would really like to go on having this perfect shitty summer tour with you pretty please with sugar on top.’

Pete just looks at him a bit helplessly. Patrick goes on, fearless, or well, more like full of fucking fear but pretending not to be, which should count twice, or something. He meets Pete’s eyes and says, “So I mean, help me out here, give me your hand. Please?”

Without looking away, Pete nods and dips one hand under the water and the lane divider between them. Patrick grabs it, then breathes in, shuts his eyes and goes under, swimming under the divider – the water is cool, pressing on his skin like thousands of tiny gentle fingers, all black against his eyelids, every sound muffled. Then Pete’s hand pulls gently on his own and Patrick’s body automatically follows that upward motion until he’s breathing fresh air and standing awfully close to Pete. They’re still holding hands and Pete has threaded their fingers together. He squeezes gently and Patrick shivers all over.

“Cold?” Pete asks, not removing his hand.

“No,” Patrick replies, unable to look away. 

Up close like this, Pete’s eyes are huge, darker than the shadows surrounding the two of them, trained on his own, unblinking. Then they flick down to his mouth, oh so quickly, there and gone, and Patrick? He’s going to let Pete do something very stupid. Or maybe he’s going to do it himself. Because right now, he understands something.

He is nineteen years old. He doesn’t have a lot of experience, sex-wise. His gay experimentation is basically null and void, in that he watched some porn once and was vaguely turned on, but there was no bright light suddenly shining down on him from the heavens and a choir of gay angels welcoming him to their ranks. Or anything. 

Right now, though, as Pete ducks his head, his hair wet and black and starting to curl, as he looks up at Patrick through the tiny beads of water on his dark eyelashes, Patrick does experience some kind of revelation. He doesn’t think he’s gay, exactly, but he’ll come back to this line of thought, for sure, later, once he remembers how to breathe. The one thing he does understand, clearly, unavoidably, is that, if Pete doesn’t kiss him in the next five seconds, he will _die_.

He waits too long, though, or maybe Pete has suddenly decided to develop a sense of self-preservation – after the longest several seconds in the history of humankind, Pete looks away and back towards the other end of the pool, where Joe and Andy are floating belly-up, while Alice and the two Assholes are laughing at something. 

“Trick, I– look, the water’s cold, you shouldn’t fuck up your voice, you should get out and find something dry and like… just– look, I left my hoodie over there,” he points at some white plastic deck chairs by the side of the pool, “you should take it, I… uh, I’ll leave you alone.”

‘But I don’t _want_ you to leave me alone,’ is what Patrick wants to say, with all the whininess and earnestness of a four-year-old – but before he’s able to catch his breath enough to speak, Pete’s already pushing away and swimming towards the others.

This time, when Patrick shivers, he’s actually feeling cold. Pete’s not wrong, if he gets a sore throat from this his voice is going to be fucked, and they have a show tomorrow, and one the day after that. But he stays in the water a long time anyway, dazed, just quietly holding on to the edge, trying to make sense of what just happened, or well, didn’t happen, and trying not to freak out too much. 

Then he pulls himself out of the water. His head is empty except for a weird rushing sound; he’s cold all over except for his face, which is burning up. He picks up his jeans and his shoes, not looking at anyone, pretending that no one is looking at him. He takes Pete’s hoodie, which of course is an atrocious purple but is at least dry, with no regrets whatsoever. 

There is a line of small wooden cabins, poolside changing rooms maybe – they look ancient, the paint peeling from their walls, but who cares, Patrick only needs a hiding place anyway. He gets to the farthest one. It has a bench, two wall hooks and a flimsy door; not much of a shelter, but it’ll do. He takes off his wet shorts and tee. He puts on dry jeans and Pete’s hoodie and sits on the bench. He zips up the hoodie, pulls up the hood as far as it’ll go, buries his face in it as much as he can. He breathes in Pete’s smell, and now, yes, okay, now he can freak out. 

After ten minutes or a couple of years, when the rushing in his ears has abated and he feels like he may be ready to face the world again, at least in homeopathic doses, he hears some noises coming from outside. A bang, then muffled laughter, whispering. He waits until the noises die down, then uncoils from his freaking-out hunch and goes to make his escape. 

He opens the door and gets out of his cabin, freezing when he sees movement inside the next one. He really doesn’t want to be seen and really, really doesn’t want to be asked any questions on the theme of ‘Are you alright?’, ‘Why did you run away?’, or ‘Did you seriously realize _only now_ that you totally want to get in your best friend’s girl jeans?’ (okay, that last one might be the question he’s been asking himself during his special freakout time). Trying to find out what he might be dealing with, he sneaks a glance through the gap in the door.

It takes a little while for his eyes to make sense of the shapes in the half light. This cabin is wider and has a tall bench against one of the side walls. Propped up on it is Alice, her head dipped back, and a boy with messy dark hair and quite a few tattoos is kneeling in front of her, one of her legs on his shoulder. Those are tattoos that Patrick knows very well. 

When his eyes adjust to the darkness he can make out Pete’s darker hand splayed on the outside of her thigh, her fingers in Pete’s dark hair. There’s not a lot of movement, just the gentle rocking of her hips, like a quiet wave. She makes a soft sound, half moan, half groan. Pete raises his head and shushes her, flashing a smile, then goes back down. 

Pete’s hand on her thigh moves lower and disappears out of sight, and a few seconds after that her hips buck up and she whispers, fervently, “Fuck,” raising her hand from where it’s twisted in Pete’s hair. Patrick knows it will have curled by now – he knows how Pete’s hair behaves in different weather conditions; what he does not know is what it would be like to have Pete’s mouth on him, and suddenly he really wants to know that, so badly, and he realizes he’s so hard he can’t breathe. 

Alice is biting on her own hand to muffle her moans, so Pete must be pretty good at this, and that’s the last half-rational thought Patrick has before he takes two steps back, presses his shoulders against the outside wall of the shed, shoves his right hand in his jeans, pulls on his dick two, three times and comes hard enough to see stars, biting on his lip to stay quiet.

As soon as he’s caught his breath, he scrambles back to the pool, gets the fuck out of there and makes his way back to the festival area. He’s suddenly very sober, very sad, very jealous, and utterly worn-out. And he lost his hat. He can’t even make it to the van – he lies down in the grass and falls asleep instantly.

*

“Hey, Trick, wake up.”

Patrick tries to resurface from his dreams of rising tides and crashing waves. 

“Come on Patrick, wake up, the guys are waiting for us, we have to go.”

He manages to open his eyes. He’s fucking cold, the grass is damp with dew and the sky is lighter. Pete is sitting beside him, arms wrapped around his knees, watching him with huge dark eyes. He has an unopened water bottle in his hand, which he opens and passes to him. Patrick sits up and drinks. “Thanks,” he says at last. His voice is rough.

Pete gets to his feet and puts a hand out. After a few seconds, Patrick takes it and lets Pete pull him up. Pete’s hand stays around his wrist, warm and dry. For a moment Patrick wants to punch him. He wants to make him hurt. Maybe if he can break his fucking jaw Pete will get it. He wants to tell him to fuck off and leave him alone for real. Take their fairytale friendship, whiter than snow, as golden as the fucking sun, and crush it to a bloody pulp. 

Then Pete removes his hand, takes something from his back pocket, and puts Patrick’s hat on his head. It’s the grey knit one that Pete gave him before their first gig, when Patrick was paralyzed with stage fright and needed something to hide behind so badly.

“Oh, you found it,” Patrick says, and lets out the breath he’s been holding for god knows how long. Along with all that carbon dioxide, most of his anger evaporates and scatters in the atmosphere. 

“Whatever, don’t lose it again,” Pete tells him, throwing an arm around his shoulders as they make their way back to the van.


	2. Grey would be the color

_ Chicago, summer 2011 _   
  


Pete is standing alone in the backstage area of Lollapalooza, looking down at his shoes. He hasn’t had a conversation with a person who isn’t a journalist in the past twenty-four hours, or at least that’s what it feels like after the non-stop string of interviews he and Bebe did starting from this morning. Or was it early afternoon? The difference between morning and afternoon is pretty fuzzy. It’s not like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed – he didn’t even wake up in a  _ bed _ , he woke up on the wrong side of  _ reality _ .

He should probably go and find Bebe and Spencer. He hasn’t seen them since they wrapped up the last press thing. The interviewer – like every single one of her colleagues before her – asked him about Patrick playing here tomorrow. He was expecting it, but still. He was there with Bebe and they should have talked more about Black Cards and way less about Fall Out Boy. He couldn’t actually refuse to answer, as much as he wanted to, so he deflected with abandon, when he didn’t lie outright. He sure as hell doesn’t owe these people the truth, whatever that might look like.

(Spoiler: he doesn’t have a fucking clue what it looks like.)

He told the guy who asked him if he’s heard Patrick’s album that he’s “a fan”. Told him it’s “authentic” and that Patrick is “vibrant” and that it’s “awesome” to see him like this, y’know, “as his friend.” He told the girl who asked about a FOB reunion at Lolla that it doesn’t look very likely, but it was going to be great because it would be the first time he and Patrick were going to see each other’s show. 

Eighty-five percent of this was bullshit (he knows perfectly well – from stalking Patrick’s twitter, not that he’s going to admit to that anytime soon – that Patrick is touring and has a show in California tonight, while he’s getting on a plane to LA tomorrow morning. If they meet, it will be at 35,000 feet, on two planes going in opposite directions, and if that’s not a fucking obvious and ugly metaphor, he doesn’t know what is. If he had written that, it would be just another bad poem. As it is, it’s his fucking life); fourteen percent was wishful thinking. The one percent of truth was this: Patrick  _ is _ vibrant in this new incarnation, this new persona, this peroxide blond in fucking slim-fit suits, playing a thousand instruments, dancing, brakes off, all-new regrets. 

And Pete wanted to nip that line of thought right in the bud, thank you very much, so he rambled on, talking about the levity of summer, about cakes with files in it, laughed behind his blackout sunglasses, teased Bebe, and laughed some more, brittle and over-bright.

Now, the press is done and he could be out there, walking around the stage, watching a bunch of cool bands, maybe one of the crazy shows with half-dressed people throwing stuff around. Instead, he’s alone in the backstage area looking down at himself. Blue jeans, purple Vans, emerald grass. He’s thinking in colors today.

His head is spinning and his mind too. Sleepless on sleeping pills, shaky on too much caffeine and too little food, not enough of the good stuff going around in his brain – dopamine, serotonin. He’s anxious and he forgets why. Because he’s going to play or because he can’t find Bebe or because Patrick could have been here or because Patrick is not. He’s anxious about an absence, an emptiness, about fucking nothing to be anxious about. He breathes in, counting, one-two-three-four, holds his breath, one-two-three-four, breathes out, one-two-three-four. Thinks about the one thing that keeps him together; about blond curls and huge eyes and exhausting tantrums and fucking bedtime, the routine that he somehow seems to need more than the two-and-a-half-year-old; he thinks about that endless love, forcing the little good that is left in him. 

Tomorrow, he reminds himself, he’s flying to LA and getting back to being a dad. Today, though, his only responsibilities are playing the show and djing at Angels & Kings later tonight.

“Hey Pete? Pete!” Bebe’s voice cuts in. She sounds like she’s been repeating herself. She found him before he could find her, probably because he hasn’t actually been looking for her. “You okay?” she asks, with a face that tells him she doesn’t really want to know the answer because it probably won’t be very fun. 

“Sure, sure, let’s get ready. Where’s Spencer?” 

“Fuck if I know. He’ll show up.”

They go over the setlist once more, then change – Bebe is all in black, a little bandage dress with tights and boots, this ridiculous gold headband with a heart on her temple keeping her big mass of hair back from her face. Pete wears black jeans, black Vans and the new varsity jacket he got made with the Black Cards logo. Which maybe isn’t the best outfit choice because the temperature onstage is approximately a zillion degrees, but whatever, he feels better with a couple of layers on him. 

Spencer gets backstage with ten minutes to spare, doesn’t change at all because he doesn’t give a fuck, but his playing is tight, as always; the half-naked dancers (female  _ and _ male, thank you very much) are a good addition to the show, and Bebe sings and jumps up and down while flirting with the audience and dancing her ass off. 

They’ve only played a handful of shows, and Pete doesn’t really know what to do with himself, exactly, since he doesn’t even play bass on most of the songs. He mostly doesn’t talk – he knows, okay, he already has a bad reputation for talking over lead singers, he’s trying to be better – and to get into it anyway. 

He stays behind the console for a while, playing with the beats and feeling kind of unnecessary. The anxiety isn’t gone, exactly, but it’s morphed into something sharper, warmer, something he maybe can use. He goes to the front of the stage to annoy Bebe, which might be familiar except, luckily, it’s not – she’s dark instead of light, birdlike instead of solid, and her voice is nothing like the one he misses like air, or water, or other things you can’t live without.

On that note, he dives from the stage, leans on the kids grabbing his clothes, holding him up – he gets completely turned upside down for a moment and imagines the electric feel of it pushing a reset button in his brain. He swims back to the stage, jumps around, lets Bebe do her thing. 

He’s smiling too wide, feeling the phantom touch of sweaty hands and sweaty arms. His skin is buzzing from the inside, like he’s got sunshine in his bones. He tries to wait it out. This is the moment where he would ground himself by going up to center stage and resting his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder, or on the sweaty nape of his neck. He hasn’t found a substitute for that cure yet.

He watches Bebe sing his words – “I'll meet you up in heaven way in the back, so we can do what we do now in the black” – it’s the last song of their set, and when he turns to look to the side of the stage there’s a familiar face, a cloud of curly hair under a grey knit hat. His heart skips a beat – if Joe’s here, then maybe, impossibly. Maybe.

God, what the fuck is wrong with him. He has to stop thinking about impossibilities and start being in the fucking moment. 

As soon as he steps off the stage Joe squeezes him in a hug and thwacks him hard on the back. He thought it would be awkward seeing him again after all this time, but there’s just smiling and, “Dude, you guys rocked!”

He introduces Joe and Bebe, asks after Marie (she’s home with their new puppy), and before he knows it he’s telling Joe, “You should come to AK tonight, I’m djing, we’ll have a few drinks.”

Joe says, “Okay, sure,” then leaves to watch Crystal Castles – Pete doesn’t think he’ll see him later. He puts him on the list, anyway. You never know.

*

So he’s surprised when, a few hours later, Joe comes up to him, Guinness in hand, while Pete is in the dj booth at AK, and proceeds to mock him mercilessly for his musical taste – “ _ Hey ya _ ? Really? Didn’t realize this was my fucking prom...” It’s achingly familiar. And if Pete changes up his setlist a bit, going easier on the EDM and putting on a Refused remix that he didn’t plan on playing, and feels slightly cooler when Joe bops his head in approval, well, that’s something like muscle memory, too. 

After his set, they take his usual booth in the Vip area and have a couple of beers with Bebe and a couple of her very young friends who are in town for Lolla. He’s bone-tired, can’t remember the last time he’s actually slept, and the adrenalin from the show is long gone. He’s still sober enough to glare at Spencer after he joins them and promptly begins talking to Bebe while staring intensely at her chest. They’ve talked about this; trying to fuck your bandmates always ends badly. At least Bebe makes it clear that she’s really not interested by turning back to her friends and ignoring Spencer for the rest of the night. Disaster averted.

And speaking of disasters. “Trohman. Jagerbombs.” 

“Wentz. No.”

“Come on, man!”

“Nope.”

“You’re no fun anymore.”

“You don’t drink Jagerbombs at one in the AM for ‘fun’, dude. It’s called desperation.” 

That hits a little too close for comfort. Does it really show that much? When several seconds pass without an answer, Joe’s expression softens and he punches Pete lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, you can buy me another beer.”

Pete does, and orders another one for himself, renouncing the hard liquor for now. Joe might have a point. He’s still a bit drunk, on top of the tiredness and the fuzziness in his brain, and that is probably why he finally blurts out, oh so casually, “So, you heard from Patrick? He’s doing okay?” 

“Yeah, we talk. I’m going to see his show tomorrow.” Pete notices he doesn’t say ‘You should come.’ 

He nods. “You should tell him…” 

“What?” asks Joe, his gaze sharper, like he’s genuinely curious about what he could possibly tell Patrick from Pete, now, in the Year of Our Lord 2011, when they haven’t spoken in so long that Pete doesn’t even remember what Patrick’s voice sounds like on the phone. (And that, right there, is a big fat lie: he remembers it, vividly. It’s just that sometimes he thinks it would be better if he could forget.)

And what would he tell him anyway? What the fuck  _ would _ he tell Patrick, if he actually saw him? Except ‘sorry’ a million times over, like an incantation or a prayer, until Patrick forgives him and Pete gets him back into his life and he can finally feel like himself again, instead of this weird empty husk around an aching heart.

“Hi. Tell him I said hi.”

Joe doesn’t say anything, just looks at him with huge serious eyes, so blue even in the gloom of the club, and squeezes his shoulder before sliding out of the booth. Pete looks up at him and forces himself to stay very still and not to chase the warmth left by Joe’s hand on his shoulder.

“Pete, I’ll see you in October, man – you’re coming to the wedding, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it, dude. Email me?”

“I’ll even send you the invite, all official-like.” 

Pete sees Joe to the door of the club, where he’s treated to another back-thumping hug and then, too soon, left alone with waves of memories crashing inside his head. He makes a beeline for the bar. The good choice is drinking a San Pellegrino and going home, he knows. He’ll roll around in his old bed in his old room, so full of reminders that he probably won’t sleep at all but, well, what else is new. In the morning, his mom will cook him French toast and he will eat some actual food after god knows how long. And before he knows it he’ll be on a plane and back in LA, not much worse off than when he left it.

Every single one of his bad decisions comes down to this: he  _ knows _ what he should do, he’s just too fucking weak to actually do it. He knocks back the first whiskey standing at the bar, picks up the second one, his fingers tight on the tumbler while he goes through the door to the kitchens and down the hallway to his office. He shuts the door, locks it, doesn’t turn on the lights, sinks down on the couch. He pops a few Xanax, washes them down with his drink. Hoping against hope that he can finally get some sleep, he lies down, the leather cushions cool against his aching head.

All day today he’s been interrupting, misdirecting, deflecting his thoughts every time they’ve aimed in a certain direction. Now everything is dark and quiet and he’s all out of distractions. Thinking about Patrick is painful but impossible to avoid, like poking at a bruise even though you know it’s not healed yet and you’re going to make it worse. The kind of pain that is actually spiked with pleasure. First, he stops trying not to think about the Patrick he has seen lately in videos and pictures, who wears a new skin and is so different from his last memory of him, a knife-to-the-heart reminder of how little Pete knows him anymore.

Then, he does something that hurts even better, and he reminds himself of  _ his _ Patrick, wrapping himself in memories with a twisted kind of delight. 

For some reason, what comes to mind is that time they broke into a swimming pool after a shitty festival in some town somewhere in Indiana or maybe Michigan, the smell of chlorine on their skin, Patrick’s eyes dark and endless watching him, waiting for him, the two of them alone together at the far end of a pool bathed in dark blue shadow. He’s maybe never wanted anything in his life more than he’d wanted to kiss Patrick at that moment. And later, when he found him asleep on the grass wearing his hoodie, strawberry blond hair curling behind his ears, pink lips breathing so softly in the dawn light, he felt so glad he didn’t. Patrick was so very young – Pete wanted so much to protect him, first of all from himself. 

In a way, he could allow himself not to want Patrick back then because he already had him. He could call him in the middle of the night and get him to talk, or listen, or sing. He could hold his hand and cuddle with him on the couch in front of a movie and cling to him like an annoying girlfriend. He could kiss his cheek, his neck, on stage and occasionally, drunkenly, even off. So he convinced himself that was enough, and that in fact, it was the best way to  _ keep Patrick _ . It turned out, like a million times before and after that, that he was wrong.

Now he doesn’t have him anymore, not even imperfectly, and by the way, if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really like who he is when he’s alone. He’s cold, sharp like a knife, and he never really feels a thing, his emotions plastic and crystallized. He felt so much more whole as one half of Pete-and-Patrick. 

Once upon a time, when he couldn’t sleep – in the van, in motel rooms, in tour bus bunks – he used to sync his own breathing to Patrick’s until it was steady and slow and calm. He knew it was creepy and he was always afraid to be found out – but it worked like a charm, every single time. 

When the pills finally kick in, there’s a moment where he feels like the roof flies off and he’s blown out into space; he looks down and sees the miniature of himself still lying on the couch, this small helpless creature gulping in air, his thoughts spinning wildly, trying to perform these weird little rituals, more superstition than anything else, in order to stay alive a little longer. Breathing; counting to four; trying to recapture the feeling of those memories, trying to remember how to actually feel something. 

He falls asleep, high on chemicals and memories of Patrick, trying to think about anything else in the world. 


	3. Finally I am home

_ Somewhere in the UK, summer 2013  _

_ He thought he was alone when he got in the elevator, but when he looks over his shoulder in the mirror he can see Patrick standing behind him. Patrick meets his eyes and smiles, small and sweet. Pete looks down and watches the numbers go up. He can’t remember which floor their room is on, which is weird, because he must have pushed the button for it just now.  _

Oh, it’s a dream, then. A bad one, probably, which means he should wake up while he still can grasp this last thread of consciousness – only he just fell asleep after tossing and turning for what felt like hours, and now he’s finally dozing, hugging his pillow, warm all over, and he really wants to stay wrapped up in this half-slumber. It could still be a good dream – it has Patrick in it. He tries to go back under, curling his body tighter and pressing his face in the pillow.

_ The floor starts shaking and the display freezes on a nonsensical combination of pixels, light blue glitching on black. He looks away from it and towards Patrick, who has turned to the door and is working his fingers through the gap just above. The doors open onto solid rough concrete. They’re stuck between two floors. Pete is having trouble breathing, he can feel the air getting thinner and hotter. He opens his mouth to ask Patrick for help but nothing comes out, he can’t speak, he can’t breathe he  _ can’t breathe –

“Pete!” That’s Patrick calling his name, somewhere far away, and his lungs fill with oxygen again. The harsh neon lights in the elevator have been turned off… he’s lying down and everything is soft and warm. His arms twitch hard and his stomach drops, he’s shaking, he’s alone, he’s falling, his eyes slip closed again and –

“Pete, it was a dream, come on, open your eyes,” Patrick’s voice says, somewhat closer now, and Pete feels the floor moving… no, it’s the mattress of his bunk, and this is the heat of a body settling close, warm hands urging him on his side and then making him sit up; then it’s one hand pressed against his chest, calming his heartbeat, the other one curled around his shoulder. They’re sitting in the dark but he can hear Patrick breathing, smell his clothes (they smell like home), feel his fingers combing through his hair. Pete stops shaking. He’s still.

“What–” he tries to say, only his voice isn’t working properly, choked up from the panic attack. Patrick waits him out while he swallows hard two, three times, trying to dissolve the lump in his throat. “What time is it?” he asks, trying not to cry. Of course that’s not the most relevant question, but he feels like he deserves some points for managing a complete sentence, shaken as he is. 

“Around two,” Patrick replies, and before Pete can let loose all the apologies already waiting on the tip of his tongue, he adds, “You didn’t wake me up. I was in the lounge.”

Something in Pete’s chest aches with the familiarity. Patrick in the back lounge of their bus at two am, while they’re traveling from one city to the next – tonight they’re somewhere between Glasgow and Reading and it’s 2013, but they could be anywhere in the world, anytime from eight to four years ago. He’s got so many memories of Patrick and himself in the back lounge, talking the day away, marathoning old movies, eating sugary cereals like two kids left without parental supervision. He was so certain he’d never get to have this again. He is so afraid he’s going to fuck it up.

When the band got back together, one of Pete’s personal goals was not to be careless with them, ever again. So he made several new rules for himself. They are like fence posts telling him how far he can go, when he should stop. He doesn’t write them down – it wouldn’t be great if Patrick ever found that particular notebook while looking for lyrics and realized that Pete needed written reminders in order to behave like a normal human being and not mess up his most important relationships. 

Anyway, it’s not like they ever talked about this – these new rules are just fragile and tentative, made up based on past experience and observation. Plus, he doesn’t really know how he fucked up the first time around. Or, well, he knows, obviously, about all the horrible stunts he pulled, he’s well versed in his own unbearable self-centeredness, his over reliance on pills and booze and fake friends and other self-harming distractions, his tendency to disappear in a chemical haze whenever shit got bad. He has notebooks filled with intricately detailed regrets, it’s just he doesn’t know, exactly, where he went so catastrophically wrong in this area of him and Patrick. So  _ now _ , when Patrick narrows his eyes at him, when he puts some distance between them, Pete notices, stops whatever it was that he was doing, and tries not to do it ever again. He’s probably got it all wrong, but at least he feels like he’s actively doing something, rather than letting everything fall apart once more. 

So the first (made-up, self-imposed) rule of Pete after the hiatus is, like Fight Club: you do not talk about the hiatus. The second rule is: you do no not talk over the guys during band meetings and/or interviews (he’s still working on this one, okay, he just gets so nervous during interviews and he hasn’t found a new workable defense mechanism yet to replace his usual rambling). Third rule: you must give the other guys space (literally and figuratively). Subclause: absolutely no touching Patrick on stage (he’s still working on this one, too. The main problem is sometimes  _ Patrick _ will touch  _ him _ on stage, causing Pete’s brain to short-circuit and his poor fried neurons to forget all about the dumb fucking rules).

Overall, Pete thinks he’s been very good with Rule Number Three, as hard as it is sometimes not to curl into Patrick’s side when he finds him working on his laptop on the couch, not to put his head on his shoulder when they’re sitting next to each other on a plane or bus, not to ruffle his hair when it’s all messy and hat-free while Patrick’s drinking his first green tea of the day at one in the afternoon (that’s breakfast time for him). 

Right now, though, Pete feels a bit dazed from his nightmare and rude awakening, so this moment feels less like actual reality and more like another dream (a good one, even, for a change). So he doesn’t think about the years where he didn’t get this, or all the things that changed, or how careful he’s supposed to be this time around. 

Patrick is so close and he just saved him from one of his dying dreams by doing all the right things, just like he always used to – and how did he know what to do, Pete always asked himself. How the  _ fuck _ did he know that Pete needed those small sensory reassurances, needed his hair swept back from his forehead, needed fingers around his wrist to help him feel his pulse slowing down, an arm tightened around his shoulders to stop the shaking? But he knew it all, somehow, better than Pete could ever explain. 

And now Patrick’s just so close and Pete is so greedy, and it’s a problem, okay, he knows – it’s never enough for him,  _ none of it _ ’s enough – and luckily he’s aware enough not to go for what he really wants, which is  _ everything _ , which is taking the road to ruin, no looking back, like their time is running out. But at the same time he’s not strong enough not to take  _ anything _ , and he knows it’s a risky move in this new détente of theirs, and Pete has always been reckless, has always liked living dangerously. So he decides to go in for a hug, just this once.

“Can I?” he says, already closing the distance, curling his hand around Patrick’s waist, and Patrick just turns to face him, slides his arms around him and holds him tight, so perfect and easy, like he’d never stopped. Like Pete didn’t just go through several years without Patrick’s hugs, which by the way were the best ever and had kind of completely ruined Pete for any other kind. Pete breathes in with his face pressed to his favorite place in the world, the curve between Patrick’s neck and shoulder. He never wants to let go. 

When he does, though, Patrick stays close. Apparently he’s not that eager to reinstate the new and improved personal space rules, either. He slides open the curtain slightly, letting a little light into the bunk. Pete meets his eyes and forces a small smile, trying to convey ‘I am okay now, you can go be a normal well-adjusted adult somewhere else, you don’t have to take care of me anymore, even though I’d really like it if you still did, just a bit, only in a more grown-up, less codependently fucked up way than what we did before.’ 

He knows he will never go back to sleep now, not with the nightmare still lurking at the edge of his consciousness, and the last thing he wants is to be alone, but he can’t bring himself to ask for anything more than that perfect hug. Sometimes he really wishes that Patrick could actually read his thoughts. But only sometimes – most of the time, it would be just too awkward if Patrick could see what goes through Pete’s mind. 

Even ruling out actual telepathy, Patrick is still pretty good at seeing right through him. “Wanna watch something?” he asks, and there is no universe in which Pete says no. 

They end up watching  _ Inception _ on the back lounge tv, with Pete fangirling over Tom Hardy and Patrick embarking on a rant on the BRAAAAAM! sound and its presence in every fucking movie soundtrack ever since and how this is symptomatic of a complete lack of imagination on the part of ninety-eight percent of the movie composers in Hollywood. Halfway through the dvd, Pete blinks and realizes that he’s sitting half in Patrick’s lap, that he hasn’t been pushed away nor received any complaints, and that there isn’t even a trace amount of panic left in his blood. He’s half asleep already, his head falling on Patrick’s shoulder, when Patrick looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face (is it fond? Slightly irritated? Pete can’t tell, he’s not even sure whether this is real or part of that very good dream he’s maybe having) and tells him, softly, “Go to sleep, Mr Wentz.” 

If Pete could see the (dopey, content, so utterly  _ smitten _ ) smile he sends at Patrick in response, he would be appalled with himself. So much for the “DO NOT FREAK OUT PATRICK” rule. (This one, in all caps because it is the first and greatest of them all, entails never,  _ ever _ letting Patrick know that Pete has been mostly in love with him since they were, respectively, sixteen and twenty-one. Or, you know, if you want to be really accurate, since about ten seconds after Patrick started singing, that fateful afternoon in his mom’s basement.) 

Then again, if Pete’s eyes were still open, he would also see Patrick’s smile at the familiar weight of Pete pressed against his side, the way he turns slightly into him when he feels Pete’s short curls tickling the side of his throat.

* * *

They’re playing the main stage at Reading and Patrick is hot, sweaty, half-blinded by the setting sun despite his sunglasses, and incandescently happy. He’s running on stage adrenaline, too much tea, and way too few hours of sleep – about three, if he had to guess, all of them spent half curled around Pete on the couch of the bus in the first hours of the morning. He can’t bring himself to regret it, he just wishes he could have taken a nap before the show instead of doing eight hundred interviews, including that weird one inside a very small camping tent.

They take a slightly longer break between “I Don’t Care” and “My Songs...” This allows Pete to take off the jacket, weird vest, and flannel shirt combo he wore for the first part of the show, while Patrick has been overheating in his flimsy tee with the rolled-up sleeves. Patrick thinks the costume change is kind diva-ish, but has refrained from mocking Pete for it after he saw him one night, shortly after the beginning of the tour, folding and putting in his suitcase all the items making up his stage costume with the utmost care. He knows about Pete’s little rituals, and in the past he’s been maybe not too good at recognizing and respecting them. That’s one mistake he’s not going to make again. 

The point being, he knows what he’s going to see when he turns to his left and looks at Pete. Not to mention that watching his best friend remove most or even all of his clothes is hardly a novel occurrence. So he truly and honestly doesn’t expect the tidal wave of longing that crashes over him at the brief glimpse of Pete’s bare stomach when his tee sticks to the flannel shirt as he takes it off. They have to play three more songs in front of 70,000 to 90,000 people, so it’s lucky he’s always been very good at compartmentalizing, because  _ fuck _ . He really thought he was over this. 

Well,  _ mostly _ over this. Unless you count how he’s never stopped finding Pete the most attractive person on the face of the earth (he’s nearsighted, not blind), or the way he keeps blushing at Pete’s (admittedly toned down) flirting during interviews, or the bizarre urge he experienced this very morning when, barely awake and still drowsy, he almost kissed Pete as a thank-you for bringing him his first cup of green tea of the day. 

Okay, so maybe he’s a bit  _ too _ good at compartmentalizing. And also not over this, not even slightly – well,  _ fuck _ .

After that fateful, delicious flash of Pete’s skin, Patrick feels like he’s drifting towards him. Well, more than usual, anyway – he’s always been all too aware of Pete’s presence on stage. This is still true, even now that Patrick has stopped delegating all frontman duties to Pete, and Pete has learned to keep his distance and dialed down the quote-unquote stage gay (and words cannot express the extent to which Patrick has always hated that expression), limiting himself to mostly harmless banter and the occasional attempt to make Patrick blush through preposterous compliments. Even with all that, he still feels Pete the way he always has, like some kind of personal, human-shaped gravitational field. 

Patrick decides his perfectly tuned guitar needs tuning so he can take a moment to regroup. Pete is talking to the crowd, shaking with performance energy, all bad jokes and awkward rockstar attitude. Patrick keeps his head down, fiddling with the tuning pegs, turning a pickup on and off again. 

He’s not sure why all of this is suddenly at the forefront of his mind, why it’s finally impossible for him to put all these feelings back in the locked box in the back of his brain where they have been safely stored until now. He’s been fine, normal, while they made an album together, filmed a series of bizarre low-budget videos, toured for several months. Maybe the myriad of small moments with Pete have been adding up without Patrick really noticing. Maybe it was seeing Pete out of his mind with fear in his bunk yesterday night and realizing that he wanted to calm him, to fix him, to take away his nightmares and his self-loathing and his panic attacks just as much as he ever did (the difference being that now he knows that’s not really in his power. But still, that doesn’t mean he’s not willing to try). Maybe it’s seeing Pete now, how he’s so perfectly happy on the stage, but he’s still sneaking glances at Patrick now, just checking that everything is in its right place.

When Pete gets inevitably closer – but not in touching distance – he shoots Patrick one of those incendiary smiles he wears lately, those announcing loud and clear ‘I never thought I’d have this again, I never thought I’d have  _ you  _ again, but here we are and I am the happiest I’ve been in my life’ – and fuck if that doesn’t scare Patrick to death. He loves this high they are on, but he can’t help being afraid of the crash.

If he could say some of those things they leave unspoken by mutual silent agreement, he’d tell Pete that he, too, never thought he’d ever have  _ this _ again, but that Pete has always had  _ him _ , even during that time where they didn’t talk to each other. He’d tell him that when they started writing together again, it felt like taking a breath after being underwater for eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds (that’s the world record for static apnea). And on that first visit-slash-writing session, when Pete opened the door, told Patrick to come in, and wrapped him in a hug, it felt like thawing after being frozen for sixty-six years (that’s how long Captain America was trapped in the ice). 

Somehow, he gets through two more songs, and then he’s playing the opening riff for “Saturday”, and then he’s walking off the stage.

Backstage, the lights are low and the air is cool. Patrick grabs a water from the catering table and makes a beeline for the least crowded corner. He stands in the shadows for a few quiet moments, drains the bottle, turns around and rests his back against the wall, facing the stage exit. 

Pete, of course, is the last one back, beaming and flushed and with the neckband of his already holey shirt stretched out from the kids at the barricade tearing at it. He’s shaking, and Patrick can’t remember why he has ever wanted to resist this relentless drifting toward him. He pushes back from the wall, but before he can move, Pete walks right up to him. 

“Good show,” rasps Patrick, but he has an excuse – he’s just finished singing his lungs out. 

“Yeah, insane,” Pete replies while giving him another one of those killer smiles, and Patrick holds his breath, thinking ‘Now. Something’s gonna happen right now.’ Because Pete has him alone in a corner, and they’re standing way too close, and this is exactly the kind of situation Patrick used to bolt from when they were younger. Now, he doesn’t want to move. He’s not sure if, and why, the rest of the world insists on existing. He’s going to do something that he promised himself he’d never do, alone in the damp grass of a high school soccer field, ten years ago almost to the day. 

Pete is clutching a bottle, one of his awful energy drinks with the alarming dayglo colors, and Patrick’s eyes dip down for a second. And then – oh dear lord. He cannot help but ask. “What the  _ fuck _ is that thing?”

Pete just looks at him, eyes wide, smile wavering slightly. He follows Patrick’s gaze and looks down at his shirt, on which someone thought it would be a good idea to write, in letters reminiscent of an ancient Roman marble plaque: GIVE ME HEAD TILL I’M DEAD.

“What, this?” he says, gesturing with his free hand and accidentally brushing his knuckles against Patrick’s chest. It shouldn’t be possible, but Patrick could swear he feels the warmth from Pete’s fingers through the fabric. They must be burning hot. He wonders how they would feel directly on his skin. His heart thumps wildly, possibly trying to find out.

Patrick would like to let it go, really, but, “Yes  _ this _ – what the fuck are you wearing?” 

“Patrick, listen. Are you honestly surprised about my poor taste in clothing?” asks Pete, taking half a step back ( _ Where is he going bring him back! _ says Patrick’s treacherous heart) and a sip of his phosphorescent drink.

“Well, no, about your poor taste in general. Who even  _ gave _ you that thing?”

“What? I bought it!” Pete says defensively, and takes another sip. “I still, like, buy my own clothes sometimes, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know, I thought people just gave things to you and you wore them without even  _ reading what was written on them _ !”

“Yeah, okay, but I know what this says, like… it says…” Pete looks down at his own shirt trying to read the writing upside down and in the dark. After a while Patrick decides to spell it out for him. 

Pete chokes. Patrick thumps him on the back, because he’s a good friend who doesn’t want him to drown on violently blue Gatorade in the backstage area of a festival they’re not even headlining. “That’s what your t-shirt says, idiot. And I think Nine Inch Nails are starting, you wanted to see them, right?” 

Pete just nods and trails after him, silent for once.

* * *

Forcing Patrick to watch the Nine Inch Nails set with him was the best idea ever. He’d tried to slip away after a couple of songs, but he was no match for Pete’s puppy eyes. He stayed, listened, and grumbled adorably until the bitter end. The side of the stage was crowded so they had to stay pretty much squeezed together while watching the show. 

Now Pete’s just out of the shower, alone in his hotel room, and he can still feel the pressure of Patrick’s hipbone against his side; the softness of his flank against his own firmer stomach, even through two layers of cotton, even two hours later. 

Looks like the New Personal Space Rule is officially fucked, and so is Pete. 

Of course breaking rules and smashing shit up isn’t exactly outside his MO – the only thing is, he’s not sure he would have the ability to build something better from the fragments. He’s not ready to mess up their new balance or whatever you want to call it. He dries off, puts on a less offensive t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants, and hears knocking. 

Huh. Apparently Patrick is the one doing the rule-breaking tonight, because there he is, outside the door. 

“So… last show,” he says, raising the bottle of whiskey he’s holding. Pete seriously thought this was not a thing they did anymore. 

“Last show,” he confirms. “What’s up with the whiskey?” 

“This is Scotch, Pete. You remember those nice PR people who gave it to us in Scotland?  _ Scotland _ , therefore  _ Scotch _ .”

“Ooo-kay, so what’s up with the Scotch?”

Oh, so he hasn’t lost his knack for dragging long-suffering sighs out of Patrick after all. He was beginning to wonder. After looking at the ceiling, probably in search of some angelic patience, Patrick elaborates, “Last show means I can have a serious drink. Finally.”

He doesn’t have a hat on – for some reason, Pete didn’t notice at first. His hair is still slightly damp and he’s changed into a fresh pair of black jeans and a burgundy shirt. It looks soft. Patrick looks so fucking good in red. Pete should stop staring. 

“You gonna make me drink alone?” Patrick asks finally, looking at him too seriously, like it’s a loaded question. And maybe it is, but what the fuck is Pete supposed to do, send him away? He’s never sent Patrick away in his life and he’s sure as hell not going to start now. He steps back from the door. Patrick goes straight to the couch and orders him to find two glasses. 

Well, okay then. 

*

“The thing I don’t get is, like. He got clean, he’s been playing for twenty years, he’s married with kids for chrissakes… Why the fuck is he still so angry?”

Pete snickers and sinks further into the couch. Patrick’s tirade about Trent Reznor has been going on for a while. Not that Pete’s complaining – he gave up almost immediately on trying to defend one of his teenage idols from the onslaught of Patrick’s sass and now he’s just along for the ride. He’s not drunk – he tends not to let that happen anymore – but he’s pleasantly buzzed. Patrick, on the other hand, looks well on his way to inebriated if the exuberant ranting and the listing to one side are anything to go by. He even took his glasses off.

They started out on opposite ends of the couch but by now they’ve both slid to the middle. It’s one of those couches that are almost too soft and kind of subsume you, like velvety, plush quicksand. It’s okay, though, because Patrick’s sinking along with him. 

Oh god, he’s got it so bad. Between all the weird extra touching of the last twenty-four hours, the post-show endorphins, and a few sips of the delicious whiskey (“For the last time, it’s Scotch, Pete!”) he’s starting to forget all the reasons why it’s a bad idea to get closer to Patrick. It’s nothing, like, untoward. Just getting a little closer, just angling his head a bit… like this… 

Patrick goes quiet. He’s done with his rant, it looks like. Pete expects to be pushed off (gently, because it’s clearly a good day) at any moment, waits for Patrick to extricate himself from Pete’s clinging and stand up, an exchange of good-nights and see-you-tomorrows. Instead Patrick lowers his right arm from the back of the couch and pulls Pete in. 

Pete goes. 

It’s official: they’re cuddling. This is a thing that hasn’t happened since before the hiatus. But at the same time it’s different from how it used to be. It’s not casual anymore, there’s too much history, too many memories tied up in their physical closeness. It’s not spontaneous like before – it’s deliberate. Patrick is the careful one, always trying to make up for Pete’s carelessness, and now he’s the one playing with fire. What the hell is Pete supposed to do? ‘Is it a test?’ his brain wonders in a moment of panic. 

And then, there is another thing: provided their cuddling was ever really innocent, before – well, it definitely isn’t, not anymore. Wherever Patrick is touching him, along his arm and shoulder, behind his neck, Pete burns.

Patrick turns his head so that they’re looking into each other’s eyes and it’s like staring at the sun. Pete can’t take it anymore. He’s out of reasons to pretend, he doesn’t know how to do the right thing anymore because he’s not sure what the right thing even  _ is _ . If Patrick wants to play with fire, why the fuck should he stand in the way? He’s so completely okay with burning. 

“You know when I used to listen to Nine Inch Nails a lot?” he asks from behind closed eyes. 

“When you were an angsty teenager?” Pete can feel Patrick’s smile, so close to his own. Closing the distance would be too easy. But he needs to say this.

“Well, yeah. But what I wanted to say was – I meant, like, when you weren’t talking to me.”

“I’m so sorry–” Patrick begins, but this isn’t what Pete meant, either. He’s had apologies, he’s given his own, it isn’t what this is about. 

“No, that’s not–” he opens his eyes because it’s too weird to have this conversation in the dark. He’s known Patrick for more than a decade, but his eyes never fail to knock him dead. He’s so close, now, that Pete can see the gold ring around his pupils and all the shades of blue-green, his pale eyelashes. He swallows. “I just meant, I listened to them a lot while I missed you, and it was nice to see the show with you tonight. Even if then you proceeded to make fun of–”

Patrick gets even closer, which shouldn’t really be possible, and breathes “I missed you too,” and then he leans in. 

Patrick’s lips feel a bit dry where they press against Pete’s. His fingers, cool from holding the glass, brush under Pete’s jaw, stroke behind his ear and then find the hair at the back of his neck and stay there. Pete goes boneless at once, heat spreading through him from the inside. He leans back for fear of crumpling like a puppet that has had its strings cut. Patrick follows, pressing him into the couch and – oh god – straddling him.

They’ve kissed before, Pete’s mind supplies. Never like this, though, with such intent, and certainly never with Patrick starting it. But, but. With every neuron that hasn’t yet fizzled out in bliss, Pete tries to open his mouth. He needs to say something before his brain short-circuits completely. He needs to know whether this is real. The result is more like a gasp than Patrick’s name, but still. He’s trying. 

“Pete, I swear to god...” Patrick’s voice is wrecked, and they haven’t done anything. ( _ Yet, _ adds Pete’s bad, not-good inner voice.) He leans back, stopping the kiss, and Pete absolutely doesn’t whine. Patrick looks at him, again, with that too-serious face. “I’m not drunk,” pressing soft kisses under Pete’s jaw, behind his ear, “It was just… a bit of liquid courage, you know?”

“You needed liquid courage to kiss me?” Pete asks, trying and failing not to sound whiny, while his hands develop a will of their own and decide that the proper course of action is to curl around Patrick’s hips. Patrick shivers.  _ Pete _ has made him shiver. He’s  _ dying _ , okay, he should get, like, an award of some kind for trying to talk through this mad and wonderful thing.

“Yeah, I did, ‘cause I was scared to death,” murmurs Patrick from where he’s now nuzzling Pete’s neck. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, arching his head back to give Patrick more room. “Yes, Patrick, of course, but god–” and suddenly he doesn’t have words anymore.  _ But god, I’ve wanted you since the day we met. But god, I never thought you’d want me back.  _

Patrick does his weird mind reading thing yet again and says, “I’ve wanted this. I just, I lied to myself for a long while, you know? But Pete–” he leans back again to meet Pete’s eyes, “I’m done with lying. And I’m done with waiting.”

Pete’s brain grinds to a halt. Patrick’s right, he’s sure, he’s done the work for both of them, like always. He should trust him. He  _ does _ trust him. Pete’s hurt both Patrick and himself so many times by pretending he didn’t want him that way, that they were better off as friends, until Patrick took his cue from him and started pretending as well, and Pete believed him, because, well, being unwanted was so much more believable. 

Maybe he should have kissed Patrick a long time ago, or maybe it’s better now, like this, knowing what they know – what their life is like with the band, with each other, and what it’s like without. He’ll never know – all he can do is take this moment and make it the right one. 

So he just says, “Okay. Okay,” and he surges up and puts in this kiss, right now, everything he hasn’t said and done before. If their first kiss was a spark, this one is more like a solar flare. It’s a kiss that’s been charging up for thirteen years. It’s messy, an explosion of desire and feeling and making up for lost time. After indulging this absolute madness for a bit, Pete forces himself to calm down and kisses him slower, deeper. Patrick moans helplessly and pulls him closer until they’re pressed together, Pete’s skin buzzing wildly everywhere they touch. 

Pete’s had so many fantasies about this that they cancel one another out and he’s left with the reality of Patrick gasping for breath above him, all fair skin and pink lips and sweet pressure. He buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder and just hangs on. He’s lost the ability to speak, which is saying something. Anyway, human words are overrated. He kind of doesn’t give a fuck about anything that isn’t kissing Patrick again and again and messing him up and touching every inch of him until the distance between them is obliterated completely and forever. He slides his hands under Patrick’s shirt and strokes his palms along his back and up, clutching the back of his neck with one hand and crushing their mouths together again. Patrick’s fucking  _ shaking _ in his arms. This kiss is wet and fierce and Pete never wants it to end. 

Eventually, it’s Patrick who breaks away. “Jesus,” he says, in a voice that’s so ruined as to be unfamiliar even to Pete, the definitive expert in the field. “As much as I appreciate this throwback to making out like teenagers…” 

Pete tries to put his brain back into gear. It isn’t easy. “But Trick, we never made out when you were a teenager,” he points out, blinking up at him. 

“Believe me, I know,” says Patrick, sounding way too self-composed. To rectify this situation, Pete bites him lightly on the neck and Patrick makes a delightful noise halfway between a moan and a laugh and melts against him again. Pete keeps nuzzling and pressing light kisses across Patrick’s throat while starting to draft new lyrics in his mind.  _ My feelings for you have always been true... throwback to our imaginary youth _ … 

Then Patrick unwraps himself from Pete’s embrace and stands up from the couch. Pete makes a small pitiful sound, like a kitten unable to find its mom. It’s sad, and yet not at all surprising, how he’s already addicted. Patrick laughs, takes his hand and tugs him upright. “I mean, points for nostalgia I guess, but I would really like it if you didn’t actually make me come in my pants,” he says, and kisses him again, sweet and full of promise, before pulling him towards the bed.   
  


* * *

It turns out sex with Pete is very similar to songwriting with Pete, in the sense that he smashes himself into a thousand little pieces for Patrick to do with as he pleases, and eventually Patrick puts him carefully back together. He’s not sure which part he prefers. Yeah, no, that’s a lie: he prefers both parts, and every small thing in between. Sex with Pete is amazing. It’s simply every one of his fantasies come true, only much better, because Patrick’s imagination is not that good. 

It’s also very exacting. He can’t remember the last time he was this tired. They’re both sweaty and sticky and ideally they should take another shower, but he’s just too exhausted to do anything more than curl around Pete and close his eyes. Sure, they played a huge show a few hours ago, and they just finished up a world tour. He still blames the sex. “It’s all your fault,” he grumbles.

“What is my fault?” says Pete, way too alert. 

Patrick’s five seconds away from falling asleep with his face buried at the back of his neck. “Nothing, just, I’m beat. We should sleep,” he says, meaning,  _ ‘You _ should sleep’ – god knows sometimes Pete needs the reminder. He keeps fidgeting. “Be quiet,” Patrick tries, “You’re not allowed to freak out.”

“Okay,” says Pete, not sounding very convinced.

“You know I’m going to be here tomorrow morning, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I mean–“

“And then I’m going to be here every morning after that, you know that too, right?”

“Yeah, no, I know,” he says, and now Patrick can hear a smile in his voice, like he’s realized he’s being ridiculous. Well, hope dies last and everything. 

Patrick thinks about making some big declaration. Something that would put Pete’s mind to rest. Something that would mark the moment. But he’s never been the one who was good with words, so he just tightens his arm around Pete’s chest, spreading one hand on his heartbeat and willing it to settle. That seems to work better than the talking, and after a while he feels Pete’s breathing slow down, gradually syncing with Patrick’s. This is a trick that Pete’s been doing since they were a pair of dumb kids sharing sleeping bags and personal space on the floor of a van. Pete doesn’t know that he knows about it. 

It takes a few tries before Patrick’s found the perfect rhythm; inhale, exhale, and again, until Pete matches him breath for breath. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [carbonbased000](https://carbonbased000.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, come say hi!


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